


Ambigram

by sumomomochi



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, FTM Karkat Vantas, Humanstuck, M/M, Oral Sex, Other, Trans Karkat Vantas, Trans Male Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-02
Updated: 2014-11-02
Packaged: 2018-02-23 21:03:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,046
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2555585
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sumomomochi/pseuds/sumomomochi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>His lips are soft and sweet. They taste like mint and wax and you find it kind of funny that you can separate the taste of his chapstick from the taste of his mouth. With him hovering over you for a change, he’s quick to take charge, tongue dipping down between your lips. You have yet to figure out if he’s naturally a total top or if he’s trying to compensate, but either way it’s adorable; you love it.</p><p>You love <i>him</i>.</p><p>Damn.</p><p>(Sequel to <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/840243">The Morning Dew Betwix Thine Thighs</a>)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ambigram

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [The Morning Dew Betwixt Thine Thighs](https://archiveofourown.org/works/840243) by [sumomomochi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sumomomochi/pseuds/sumomomochi). 



> reading morning dew betwix thine thighs isn't exactly super necessary to read this fic but it's more porn :DDDD
> 
> also heads up some of dave's thought process in regards to karkat's dysphoria may be squickworthy but in a dumb cis boy way instead of anything malicious so

You think you’re actually in love with Karkat. It’s been no secret that you adore him; he’s been your best bro since you were kids, your friendship largely based off mutual asshattery and beating the shit out of each other with sticks and toy swords and, on one occasion, frozen pool noodles. You’ve had a crush on him off and on since you were _five_ , as your gran is so quick to remind you every time he’s ‘round.

Which is a lot. He lives four houses down, he’s _always_ lived four houses down and it’s so completely cliche that you’ve fallen for your childhood friend that you keep any and all declarations of love firmly tucked behind your teeth, even though you know he’d be thrilled. He adores shitty paperback romance plots and, if there was a convenient vampire for a love triangle, he’d basically be in one, that’s how cliche your feelings are.

And it’s not even ironic. You’re completely sincere which, _technically_ , is actually ironic but...

You’re a teenager and you’re well aware of how many teenage relationships fall flat and you _refuse_ to break Karkat’s heart.

And if you refuse tell him you love him, you can’t use it as leverage to get him naked, won’t have him thinking he _has_ to get naked. You think it’s dumb that he’s so uncomfortable with you seeing his tits, even though he has no problem with your face between his thighs, and you feel like a total ass for thinking that way. You have no say in what makes him disphoric or not, you get that. It’s cool.

It still frustrates the hell out of you though, enough that you’re climbing through his bedroom window at two o’clock in the morning. It’s nothing new; neither of you sleep very well and you spent half of middle school chilling up here at dark thirty. You haven’t snuck in without warning since he came out though, even if he still leaves his window unlocked.

You can see him typing at you, your dp visible over his shoulder along with a mile of angry capslock, and the force of him hitting the keys echos in his room. You can’t help your grin as you watch him, squatting on his window sill. You crawl in for real after a moment, careful to keep your shoes off his bed. He flinches and whirls around when you shut his window, maybe just a little too hard.

“Jesus _fucking_ christ,” he snaps at you, his voice an angry whisper. He’s got one earbud pinched between his fingers, blaring a tinny beat -- no wonder he didn’t hear you coming in. His glare is ruined by his bed head and his hoodie slipping off one shoulder. You plop onto his bed and start untying your shoes.

“Okay, no, one, you could have fucking _told me_ you’d be ninjaing up into my room, we were literally _just talking_ , and two, if you tracked dirt into my bed again I am going to murder you.”

You laugh, “Didn’t track dirt in, promise,” as you toe your shoes off. Your boyfriend continues to glower at you, his dark eyebrows drawn in as he yanks the side of his hoodie back into place. He’s not wearing anything under it, his jimjams solely comprised of a too big hoodie and flannel pants that are probably three feet too long. You smirk at him; “You doin’ anything interesting over there or can we make out?”

He sighs hard and rolls his eyes but he does it in the way you know is just him posturing. You bat your eyelashes at him, lips pursed with your arms squished against your puffed out chest like you’re trying to show off cleavage you don’t have, and he laughs this tiny, breathy laugh. He stands, shuffling over, and you were totally right about his jimjams being too long. They pool around his toes and it’s really cute, but they’re also slung tantalizingly low on his hips.

He lets you grab onto them hips and drag him closer, between your knees. He lets you rest your head against his chest too, arms sliding around his waist.

“Man, you are the snuggliest motherfucker,” you tell him, leaning up a little to press a kiss against his breastbone where he’s always been covered before.

His hands are on your shoulders, not doing anything, just there. You want to slide your hands under his shirt, to smooth them up his back and touch his bare ribs. You don’t. Instead, you tilt your face up towards him, expectantly waiting for him to kiss you.

His lips are soft and sweet. They taste like mint and wax and you find it kind of funny that you can separate the taste of his chapstick from the taste of his mouth. With him hovering over you for a change, he’s quick to take charge, tongue dipping down between your lips. You have yet to figure out if he’s naturally a total top or if he’s trying to compensate, but either way it’s adorable; you love it.

You love _him_.

Damn.

He pushes you back onto his bed, straddling one of your legs with his, gasps when you slide your hands over his ass and down the back of his thighs. With his jimjams slung so low and trapped under his knees, you can’t push your thigh up against his crotch, the taunt fabric keeping you at bay even as one of his hands comes down to rub against your dick.

“Tease,” you hiss against his lips, hips canting up against his palm. You’re not even hard; you don’t fuck _here_ , in the middle of the night, in his room, with his headboard against the wall shared with Kankri and their parent’s down the hall. You just came to chill, maybe cuddle, get him comfortable around you without his vest since you figured he wouldn’t be wearing one after getting up in the middle of the night.

You are not fucking complaining though, your fingers tangling with his when you reach down to yank your jeans open. His hand slithers through the fly of your shorts, pulling your dick out, and you’re more than content to let him nibble on your neck while he jerks you off.

Your hands migrate back to his hips and you really want to return the favour, want to pull him against you and hump until he forgets what he was doing and squeaks moans into your ear. You don’t though. You don’t want to overstep boundaries or push him into something he doesn’t want to do.

He slides his hand over the head of your dick with a flick of his wrist and you twist to press your face against his neck, muffling the little noise that creeps out your throat, hyper aware of the house full of sleeping people surrounding you.

“You know,” he mumbles against your temple, “you can touch me.”

You grumble, “Get out of my brain.”

He just laughs, a breathy chuckle against your cheekbone, and you slide your hands up under his shirt and over his waist. The front of his hoodie billows out more at that, zipper brushing your chest and you _don’t_ shift to look down. You don’t.

It just happens it’s stuffy trying to breath against your boyfriend’s neck and your eyes being pointed towards his chest is simply a byproduct of you adjusting, that’s all.

You don’t _see_ anything either, his chest wrapped in black shadow and charcoal cotton, so it totally doesn’t count.

He keeps jerking you off as you slide your hands up just a bit farther, palms wrapping around his ribs. It’s a little weird not feeling the dip between his vest and his flesh. He’s soft and squishy and hot to the touch, silky skin instead of nylon, and you really, _really_ want him naked under you, cocooned in blankets, chest to chest while you fuck him.

It’s not even that he has tits. You saw him topless once on accident, when you were thirteen and he wore nautical print underwear sets. It was _weird_. He’s always been manly as fuck and your best bro wearing a bra was not something that had occurred to you. It’s still weird, the same way him standing dickless in his boxers that first time was weird.

But he’s _hot_ with his thick eyebrows and big nose and nut brown skin that’s awkwardly pasty because he hardly ever leaves his room anymore, and he’s your boyfriend and you want him naked and in your bed basically all the time.

You creep your hands up just a little bit higher, until you think you can feel where his tits start to swell out and he shudders, just a little. It takes a lot of effort to keep your hands where they are, to not flinch away. When he pulls his hand away from your dick to fumble with one of yours, your heart sinks.

He only goes after one hand though, your left brought out from under his shirt and then he’s shoving his boxers down until the elastic pinches around his thighs, and when you touch your fingers to his crotch he hisses a pleased curse. You don’t know why. You suck at this part.

Your dick lies forgotten against your hip, his left arm braced against the bed to keep him propped up, his right hand around your wrist, guiding you into jerking him off. He contorts your hand until you’ve got your thumb against his clit, two fingers pressed into him and you’re clumsy as fuck, you know it, but he’s still ends up trembling and moaning into your ear.

You want to tell him how great he sounds, how much you adore the noises he keeps trying to muffle against your face, how cute it is that he’s shy but still unable to keep from groaning. You want to tell him that you think you could get off from just touching him, especially if he keeps having to swallow back your name as he clutches your shoulder with the hand he’s resting his weight on. You aren’t even joking. You probably could and you wonder how he’d react to that but you keep your word vomit locked behind your teeth. You don’t want to let spew in case you can’t shut up. 

The last thing you want is his parents, or god forbid, his _brother_ to catch you with your dick out, knuckle deep in Karkat, when you should most definitely be at your own house.

He flails at you a little after a moment, shaking and uncoordinated. You obediently pull your hands away.

“You okay?” you breathe, not daring to say more than that. He nods, climbing off you, jello kneed and gasping. You prop yourself up on your elbows to watch him as he shimmies out of his pants, his hoodie long enough to reach the top of his thighs. It’s starting to slide off one shoulder again, and with him turned a little towards his computer, you can actually see hints of the curve of his chest.

He returns with a towel pulled from his laundry hamper. You move without any prompting, letting him lay it out. You learned your lesson about the towel already, when you wound up with sheets soaked through with sex and you put your hand in the wet spot. You’re not going to have sex though. Your intent was some mad snuggles, and thus, you are gloveless.

Karkat makes a face and swipes the corner of the towel along the inside of one thigh before he crawls back into bed with you. You raise your eyebrows and he scowls; “Dripped all the way down to my knee”

Your laugh at that sounds like an asthmatic schnauzer and he smacks your thigh.

“Hot,” you tell him, grinning.

“Shut up.”

Even with how his screensaver is washing out his skin, you can totally see his face turn red, and you pull him to you.

“It is,” you whisper to him, “Totes flattered here bro. Glad to know I make your kokoro go doki doki.”

He shoves your shoulder this time, squirming out of your grasp, but he’s grinning too. He rolls to lay on his side next to you, hips over the towel and a hand in the collar of his hoodie, holding it closed over his chest. You wiggle until you lay even with him, tucking your dick back into your underwear.

You scootch close too, until you can press your forehead against his. Slowly, you bring your hand up, fingers pinching the zipper of his hoodie. You can literally see the way he tenses up, eyes dropping from your face to your hand, but you just tug the zipper up a little.

You want him to be comfortable.

When he looks back up at you his eyes are a little wet looking, shining in the near dark, and he looks kind of shocked.

You shrug, “You look cute as fuck drowning in that hoodie.”

He drops your gaze again, cracking a grin, and scootches a little closer, until you’re pressed against him from the gut down.

You want to press your thigh between his again, want him to grind down against you until he creams himself. You don’t give a shit that you’re still dressed either. You have to do laundry anyway.

But you also sort of want to go down on him.

“You opposed to some oral right now?” you whisper to him, hand skimming down his chest. You linger more over his belly and the fraying graphic on his hoodie that you do his tits. He rolls back and takes you with and you try not to laugh at how he basically just shoves you down.

You like to think you’re much better at this than you are at jerking him off. You waste no time in slathering him in affection, tongue prodding at where he’s already slick. You lap at his slit, tongue flat against him, listening to his breath pick up. He parts beneath your touch easily and he makes this tiny, pathetic keening sound when you press the tip of your tongue into him. His hips arch up, putting his weight on his heels and his spine, and you listen to the way he whimpers when you fuck him with your tongue.

His fingers tangle in your hair after one apparently pleasant prod and you grind your hips into his bed. You pull back enough to nip at the inside of one thigh, hissing, “Not fair.” 

He just yanks at your head, almost viciously, and when you manage to look up at him, he’s smirking down at you.

“Asshole,” you grumble. His grin widens.

“You like it.”

You sigh, face heating up. He gasps when you simply return to sucking at his crotch, slowly pressing your fingers into him too. That always gets him.

He writhes on your hand, squirming to fuck himself better with your fingers while also trying to keep your tongue against him just where he wants it. His breathing is fast and ragged. You run your tongue along the crook of his thigh, fingers pressing up how he likes, and he keens.

He keens _words_.

“Oh god, _fuck_ me already, jesus shit, Dave, _please_.”

Even with his fingers clenched in your hair, you pull back, slack jawed and amazed. Usually _you’re_ the one spouting needy, desperate bullshit, but Karkles even tacked on a please.

“Don’t got nothing,” you tell him, stupefied. He groans, frustrated and a little higher than usual, so you kiss the inside of his thigh and work your fingers back into him; “‘M cool doin’ ‘just this.”

He moans at your continued touch, trembling a little before he flails his hands at you and you pull away. Karkat’s flushed and breathing hard, squeaking in sensitivity when he sits up. His zipper’s fallen again, hoodie twisted around, and when he leans over to rummage on his side table you --

You avert your eyes, no matter how tempting his soft, warm skin is.

“What’s the date?” he asks, squinting at a plastic rectangle.

“Sixteenth,” you answer automatically, “Seventeenth now.”

He presses his thumb against the plastic and pops out a pill, tonguing it immediately. He flips the rectangle over, flashing you the other side of the half empty blister pack.

“We’re good,” he says, slapping his, his meds back on the table and flopping back, one arm crossed against his chest.

Your face is hot; your mouth sticky and wet, almost literally dripping sex, and you just sort of stare at him. You lick your lips out of habit and your dick throbs at the taste of him still lingering.

“You sure?” you ask after what feels like an eternity. You can see his face redden even in the twilight of his room.

He croaks, “Yeah.”

You wipe your mouth on the back of your wrist; “Honest?”

“Yes,” he snaps, scowling, “so quit fucking asking, okay?”

Grinning, you climb up his body, leaning in to kiss him. He turns away, pulling a face.

“Don’t be gross, asshole,” he grouses.

“Hey, I didn’t make the mess.”

You wiggle your eyebrows at him and then he tells you, flatly, “Yes you did.”

You... yeah. Yeah, actually, the mess in his pants is so totally your fault. You are entirely alright with taking the blame, so you just wiggle your eyebrows more.

“Don’t hear you complainin’, babe.”

He scowls, sighing hard through his nose with his brows pulled down like he’s the most ferocious of kittens. You’ve got it so bad.

“You gonna fuck me or what?”

You sit back on your knees, giving him your best come hither look while you strip off your shirt. You really enjoy the way he bites his lip as he watches you. It’s not jealousy in his eyes -- you know what that looks like, remember it from the start of his transition, before he officially came out, when you and John would run around Rose’s pool shirtless in the summer while Karkat sat at the edge in an oversized shirt and swimtrunks. You had thought it was because he was uncomfortable with his weight. You know now it was nothing like that.

And this is completely different. This is a look of appreciation, of smug reveling in the fact that his boyfriend is hot shit.

You roll your hips as you strip, tensing your stomach to accentuate your hard lines of muscle, putting on a show. When your shirt clears your head, he’s smiling.

“You’re such an idiot,” he tells you, voice filled with affection.

“Your idiot though.”

It’s almost embarrassing how hard you’ve fallen for him, but then, it’s dark-thirty and he’s the sweetest thing drowning in his hoodie with his bed head and half lidded eyes and soft lips pulled into a smile that just barely shows his teeth.

Time slows for half a heartbeat and the words are at the tip of your tongue, so close to spilling out without your permission. You skew them desperately but you still sound reverent when you whisper, “You’re gorgeous, you know,” and you can hear how his breath catches.

You think he knows. Or maybe he thinks he’s injecting your words with his romcom ideals, forcing himself to believe the metaphorical rose tinted shades he’s viewing your relationship through are all in his head. Metaphorically.

Probably the later. You think you should probably do something about that. Your heart clenches at the thought of him saying It back to you and you’re such a sappy loser.

~~It sort of scares you how intense your feelings are for him.~~

He doesn’t turn away when you kiss him this time, hard and almost desperate as you fumble with your pants. You get them shoved down your thighs and that’s as far as you can manage with him sucking on your bottom lip. You don’t care.

You need to do laundry anyway, so what does it matter if your jeans get splattered with his spunk.

It doesn’t. What matters is his hot breath against your cheek and the amazing slickness you’re pressing into. You get one of his knees up under your shoulder, folding him in half. He squawks in surprise, the sound petering into a bitten off moan as you slide home.

And it is glorious.

You whimper at the feel of him, so tight and hot; slicker than a fifty gallon drum of synthetic birthing fluid -- fuck, wait, no more playing Mythbusters reruns as background noise, what the _fuck_. You can’t help the jittery snicker that crawls past your teeth, and he curls tighter around you, clinging to you with all his limbs like he thinks you’re gonna leave.

~~Like you’d ever leave.~~

“And what exactly is so fucking funny?” he grumbles, voice low and raspy and you think, I’m in love with you is what.

You don’t tell him that. Instead, you say, “Banana peel skating rink,” and muffle your inappropriate giggling against his shoulder. He slumps under you, limp arms falling from around your shoulders, and he heaves the deepest, most weary sigh you’ve ever heard from him.

“Fucking really?” he hisses, “You are such an insufferable dick pimple, I don’t even know why I continue to deal with you.”

“Because you love me,” the words just slip out, your tongue apparently slicker than his crotch. You can hear him suck in a surprised breath and you bury your burning face in the side of his neck, backtracking, “An’ you you owe me for breakin’ my nose with a pool noodle.”

You think, if you weren’t balls deep in your boyfriend, your dick woulda shriveled up in despair at how fucking _stupid_ you are, but you’re already hard and your boner has a mind of it’s own. Your only hope is to fuck him good enough that he forgets.

He gasps, “You’re an idiot,” as he arches up under you, his thighs squeezing ‘round your hips.

“Your idiot,” you whisper in return and you know, transcribed, your reply would be an ambigram, an upside down love confession ‘cause the word’s already fallen from your lips and you can’t take it back.

~~You don’t really want to.~~

Karkat opens his mouth to say something else but you can only hear how the words catch in his throat. You fuck so sweetly you can feel the cavities you’re creating, even when you pick up the pace, even when you muffle moans in each other’s mouths, even when he bites down on your neck so hard you bite out a too loud curse and shoot your load.

He doesn’t let you pull away, hands on your face to keep you close, forehead to forehead. He looks serene; eyes closed and face smooth, breath trembling from between parted lips, painted gold from street light on one side and flickering electronic blue-white on the other. You could count his eyelashes.

You don’t. Your tongue is a lead weight in your mouth, lungs tight with the words, filled to the brim with confessions, leaving no room for air and you think you might explode if you don’t say them.

It’s so saccharine you think your thoughts are comprised of ninety percent glucose.

And then he kisses you and the words don’t even matter anymore.

“Shut up,” he orders, “And get off me, jesus, I think I’m going to have bruises from your bony ass hips.”

You laugh and his hands fall away. Yours linger on his skin as you pull away, just far enough to deslime your dick while he tucks one side of the towel between his legs, making a disgusted face. You tug your pants back up your hips and go to retrieve his underwear like a true gentleman.

He drags you back into bed with him, doesn’t let you go until his alarm the next morning makes you bolt awake and you have to sneak out his window to go home. He shoves a piece of paper down the back of your shirt in second period and when you fish it out, you find it reads, “LOVE YOU TOO, ASSWIPE.”

You have the best boyfriend.


End file.
